


Gymnopedie no. 1

by la_esperance



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-27
Updated: 2012-10-27
Packaged: 2017-11-17 03:40:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/547230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/la_esperance/pseuds/la_esperance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lestrade is injured, Mycroft plays the piano, John empathizes and Sherlock is pissed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gymnopedie no. 1

**Author's Note:**

> My first Mystrade fic. This came to me after I read Mark Gatiss’ novels and was inspired by his dedications in those novels to his husband, Ian Hallard. And so I rushed to write this story. I hope it turned out all right.
> 
> Thanks for reading and enjoy! ^_^

When John came downstairs after he had seen to Lestrade, he found Mycroft in the drawing room, seated at the gleaming piano. Mycroft was playing a tune that almost sounded like a death knell. But it was a familiar tune, something that was usually used in movies for sad scenes or something like that. John was sure that Harry had learned that song too when she was interested in the piano.

It was a soothing song, John would say if asked to describe it. It was calming, a little morose but beautiful nevertheless. Trust Mycroft to know what song to play in this situation. It kind of made John want to give Mycroft a comforting pat on the back but one doesn’t do that with a well suited man, right? Especially if that man is Mycroft Holmes.

John cleared his throat softly to catch Mycroft’s attention. A raised brow was the only sign that John had his attention. He cleared his throat again and gave his initial report. He ended by asking if Mycroft was sure that he wanted Lestrade at his country home instead of a well-equipped hospital.

“I don’t trust hospitals.” Mycroft drawled. “Besides, in a few days time under you care, John, Greg will be right as rain, I should think.”

Out of instinct, John was about to ask how he could arrive at such diagnosis but bit that question down. He’d long ago learned to trust in Mycroft’s and Sherlock’s observations. Also, John was not so cold hearted as to shoot down a man’s hopes that his loved one would regain consciousness in a few days.

So, John nodded and informed Mycroft that he’d return tomorrow. Mycroft smiled and continued to play the piano.

===

Sherlock said no. John looked at him. Sherlock said no and no again and no. Yet he still ended up accompanying John every time John made the trip to Mycroft’s house to check on Lestrade. He’d invariably sulk in the car and refuse any form of conversation with John just to show how miffed he was.

There were several reasons Sherlock disliked those trips. One, because it was Mycroft’s house and that was actually the one and only, the ultimate reason. But Sherlock knew that because of the special circumstances, Mycroft would be at the piano again, playing that grating song. Again.

God, how he hated that song.

It wasn’t just because it was slow and tiresome to listen to or the fact that it was _Mycroft_ playing it. No. It was because it was a sure sign of Mycroft’s pining. The only time Mycroft ever let the world know that he had a sliver of emotion in himself it just had to be an insipid emotion like longing. _That_ really bothered Sherlock. 

“Look, Sherlock.” John began in a soothing voice, “I know you don’t like being at Mycroft’s but I need an assistant and you’re the best I have. Actually…” John glanced at Sherlock, “You’re the only one that I want as my assistant.”

“Of course.” Sherlock muttered.

Beside him, John let out a soft chuckle as he turned left onto a tree lined lane that led to Mycroft’s estate.

Once inside, Sherlock gritted his teeth as the sickening soft tune wafted through the air but he didn’t say anything. John would probably scold him if he did so he kept quiet, blocking out all traces of the song as they made their way up to Lestrade’s room.

A few minutes later, Sherlock left John to tidy things up with Lestrade. He made his way downstairs to the kitchen and was annoyed that Mycroft was still playing that blasted song. He huffed and made his way to the drawing room. Mycroft was sitting at the black Bosendorfer, his head tilted to one side. 

“Do you have to play that song over and over again?” Sherlock said crossly. Mycroft stopped playing at this.

“Do you know the story behind that song?” Mycroft murmured, pressing random keys in a way that produced soft plaintive sounds. 

“No.” Sherlock answered immediately, “It isn’t important to me.” When he realized how callous that had sounded, Sherlock bit his lip.

Mycroft raised a brow at that but kept his gaze on the piano, “When Satie composed this song, he wanted to evoke the longing one feels when one waits for a lover, a lover who may never come. The chords are like the chiming of a poignant clock.” He started to play the song again, “Satie knew what he was about when he composed this.”

“But must you play it so?” Sherlock replied in an exasperated tone.

“Well, I am waiting, aren’t I?” Mycroft said simply, looking out of the nearby the French windows.

Suddenly, they heard footsteps rushing down the staircase. Mycroft turned to the drawing room doors but still continued playing. Seconds later, John rushed in with a smile on his face.

“Lestrade is…He’s awake.”

===

He found Lestrade sitting up in bed against several plump pillows. The medical monitor beside him was blinking happily at his steady vitals. Lestrade smiled when Mycroft came in and motioned for him to sit on the bed.

“Hello, governor.” Lestrade said teasingly. “This room is capital, I say!”

Mycroft snorted, “Well, it is _my_ room. You should know that by now.”

A naughty smile curled Lestrade’s lips, “It’s just like you to be subtle. Give the man some time to heal!”

Mycroft leaned forward and kissed the bridge of Lestrade’s nose, “How are you feeling?”

Lestrade answered with a _Mmm_ and tilted his head so that lips met in a brief kiss. He reached out to pat Mycroft’s knee.

“I’m doing good.” He answered, “Feel twice my age, though.”

“I think I’ve got the medicine for that.”

Lestrade chuckled, “I’m sure you do. Listen,” He looked at Mycroft, “I think I heard someone playing the piano. Satie’s _Gymnopedie_ , I think it was. Any chance that it was you?”

When Mycroft nodded, Lestrade asked if he could play it again. Mycroft deferred it to another time which elicited a _“Why ever not?”_ from Lestrade.

Mycroft smiled and said, “I’m done waiting.” 

And he kissed Lestrade again.


End file.
